


Memorial

by itmeanslife



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3473081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itmeanslife/pseuds/itmeanslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the deaths of Sam Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memorial

Everything is dark  
It's more than you can take  
But you catch a glimpse of sun light  
Shining, shining down on your face  
-  _In My Veins_ by Andrew Belle

 

The first time Sam Winchester dies, he’s stumbling towards his brother, blood seeping from the wound in his back. He only vaguely hears Dean’s shouting, a ringing in his ears getting louder and louder with each step until he’s sinking to his knees, unable to stand a moment longer. His eyes grow heavy, fluttering. He closes them once, reopens them to the sight of her.

She’s wearing the same white dress, just like he saw on the street that day, but her expression is different. Her eyes are soft, a small, sad smile on her pink lips. She holds her hand out to him and the ringing stops; her voice is clear in his ears for the first time in what seems like eternity. _“Come on, Sam. Come home with me."_

And he does.

When he wakes up days later, shooting pain in his back and panic enveloping his senses, he’s forgotten the feeling of her hand in his. His focus returns to the yellow-eyed demon and the cowboy graveyard. There’s one brief moment where, in his peripheral vision, he swears he catches sight of blonde curls turning away. When he looks, there’s no one there.

The next few deaths, almost all by the hands of angels, are too brief for a sighting, but each time he’s brought back to life, he swears he hears his name whispered from her lips. _“Sam…"_

He never sees her when he goes to Heaven with Dean, doesn’t make it far enough along his memory path. A part of him resents Dean for a fragment of a second when he interrupts the Thanksgiving scene, thinking desperately, _No, not yet, I haven’t gotten back to her yet._

Before they return to Earth, he looks around Joshua’s garden and tries to memorize the types of flowers, swearing that when this Apocalypse is over, he’ll visit Jess’s grave and leave as many bouquets as possible there. He hasn’t visited her in so long.

The final time he dies, tugging Michael with him and free-falling into Lucifer’s cage, he looks up from the abyss and sees her leaning over the ring of darkness, her bright hair a halo surrounding her face. All of those days tortured by archangels, it’s her face when he closes his eyes that keeps him hanging on, clutching to her image as if it was his only light source.

He escapes to her sometimes, as much as possible, hiding within her embrace. Every time he’s ripped away is worse than any other torture Lucifer presses into his deteriorating soul. His screams are the loudest when she fades from his sight.

When he reassembles his soul, reaching that final piece, he almost takes the offer. _“Go find Jess, but don’t do this.”_ There’s a moment’s hesitation, and he hates himself for it. Dean’s out there, he needs him, he can’t leave his brother alone, not like he left her alone. Dean’s still alive. She isn’t.

After that he never sees her again, except in his dreams every once in a blue moon. Even then he doesn’t really remember what happened while he was sleeping, just that she was there. It’s hard to recover those mornings, cursing the alarm that drags him away.

What occurs more than anything is what he _feels_. Some nights when he stays up too late researching or hiding from his nightmares, he feels the press of her lips to his temple, the rake of her fingers through his hair. He feels the whisper of her breath telling him to get some rest. He feels the tug of her hand on his, pulling him towards his bedroom. In the mornings when the dreams escape him, if he’s lucky, he feels the press of her arms around him, the warmth of her body behind his.

Most of the time he reminds himself that it’s in his mind, impossible. Sometimes he likes to pretend. He’ll smile and keep his eyes closed and pretend that he’s still at Stanford.

He never is.


End file.
